The Last Drop of Blood
by Duilin
Summary: …is mine. / It was a race to see who could fall asleep first. But both of them had been masters at euphemisms and understatements, hadn't they? Only…after centuries of enduring the same fate, Maglor knew better—and was better, this time around. A/U
1. Hour One

**After this, I swear. Chiaroscuro is my top priority in terms of updating stories.**

* * *

The Last Drop of Blood

_…is mine. / It was a race to see who could fall asleep first. But both of them had been masters at euphemisms and understatements, hadn't they? Only…Maglor knew better—and was better, this time around. A/U_

* * *

Maglor felt a sharp pinch at the inside of his wrist and resisted the urge to groan, pressing his palm to his mouth as he glared to his left at Maedhros.

"Stay awake," his brother reminded him.

Maedhros truly looked the part of a person who had singlehandedly fought the world and barely survived. But then again, Maglor supposed, he mirrored his brother almost exactly. With a small sigh, Maglor nodded and turned away. A question churned within his mind, digging deep for the caved in wells of his heart. Between the lines of an iron black, adamant cage and fighting against the urge to close his eyes and never open them again, he finally realized that a part of him needed this satisfaction, the answer to this inquiry that tugged at the very seams holding him together, threatening to pull him apart.

Who would die first?

_Die._

Of course. It all boiled down to this.

Sleeping—no, it could not be called sleeping. Perhaps only the innocent—who were fortunate enough—could die in their sleep. Though Maglor did not understand why, he knew that Maedhros and he were a far cry from innocent.

So…what was this feeling?

Sadistic triumph?

Maybe. But he wasn't sure how long he could hold out.

He never thought that he would live forever.

No.

But a thousand worlds away, in another place where he didn't exist here, he knew that only the foolish would want to live forever—that he once lived until time grew old. But this novel feeling, taking root deep within his fingertips, letting his nails sink into the place where it ached the most… he was being selfish.

_Let me be selfish this time,_ he pleaded with himself, looking over to Maedhros.

This time…?

—rising—

—rolling—

—crashing—

—waves, lapping—

—at his feet—

—sinking—

—to his knees—

This time.

He had to know.

"How do you feel, Maedhros?" Maglor queried solemnly, keeping his tone in check as he stared expressionlessly at the red-haired man before him.

Maedhros gave him a flat look, lined with suspicion and confusion, and repeated questioningly. "Maedhros?" Maglor stared blankly back at him, and he didn't question it anymore. "As if I am about to die." _Don't die before me._

Putting their fear into perspective, Maglor turned to face the opposite wall again. _Will you feel any regret like you did last time?_

He smiled to himself, bowing his head.

_I understand. Why should I be melancholy while the world is happy? Why should the world be happy while I am melancholy? I stand against myself as the world stands against every individual._

He turned to Maedhros and shook his shoulder. Maedhros looked to him, and an understanding passed between them. His mouth thinned as he stared at Maglor.

"No."

His voice, cold, harsh, like an icy hell.

It was all coming back now.

_This time…_

Maglor's smile widened, but it was unnatural, as if he were forcing himself to show emotion. Words flew between them effortlessly without a single sound made.

_I'm dying. You can't. You are too. Don't fall asleep. Let me be first. The last drop of blood—_

Maedhros grasped Maglor's shoulders and shook him. A sort of desperate, strangled laugh left Maglor's lips as he swiped his hand across Maedhros' chest, letting red blossom across his own tunic. _Not this time._

"You can't."

_Let me be selfish._

_Why should the world be happy while I am melancholy?_

Maglor inhaled deeply and leaned against Maedhros. "I just want to sleep for a while."

Wordlessly, Maedhros pushed him away.


	2. Hour Two

A single affirmation.

Maedhros was giving up now, and he could tell. The pinches were coming less frequently, and as Maglor glanced over to his brother, all he could find was a pale, wan face, set stonily in a brewing storm, like a ship at dock, threatening to be swept away. He reassured himself that everything would be all right.

Though Maedhros had ripped his own tunic into strips to bind Maglor's wounds, Maglor still knew that their wounds were almost exactly matched.

But.

"Why."

"It's my turn," Maglor answered simply.

They didn't speak for a while. Maedhros regretted it later on.

"Why can't you take the fall this time?"

Ironic. Accusing. Ringing in his ears.

But no response.

"Always the one to be left behind, the one who lives forever, the one who is the last to die."

Bitter. Laced with acrimony, inside and out.

Silence.

"But it's different now."

Maedhros turned unwillingly to Maglor, sensing the almost imperceptible change in pitch, hearing Maglor shift around.

His eyes widened.

"What—"

"It doesn't hurt," Maglor said. "It never has. I have felt—will feel—much worse."

"You have…this many?"

"I knew the end was coming, so I hid them. But this time…it won't be me. There is too much to fix, no time to fix it." With his tunic flung to the other side of the room, his bandages hanging off of his weak frame, a grotesque, bluish-back wound festered at his hip, trailing beneath the hem of his trousers and all the way to his ankle where his pants were rolled up. Maglor smiled at Maedhros. But that wasn't it. A million gashes, cuts, abrasions littered his chest, abdomen, lacerations leaving skin and flesh barely hanging in place on his arms, fingers dripping with blood, collarbone snapped, the back of his neck slashed across thrice, the skin puckering upwards in three sneers at anyone who looked upon it.

Mirrored almost exactly.

_And worse._

Bits of skin, scabs, and clotted, dry blood bunched up inside his nails because he had reopened his wounds.

He chuckled at the expression on Maedhros' face.

"Do you understand?"

Maedhros moved mutely, over to the other side of the room, gathering the cast-aside tunic with trembling fingers, and forced them to work.


	3. Hour Three

"I'm sorry."

Why was he apologizing?

_Please live on without me. I'm sorry._

Because Maedhros always apologized before leaving him to bear the weight of the world alone? No—not the world. Their _sins._ Their sins transcended worlds—were heavier than a thousand vast lands of dense, unforgiving ice.

"Don't apologize."

At this point, apologizing was quite useless. Maglor bowed his head and smiled against Maedhros' neck, feeling his eyelids drop lower, feeling his gaze swim with black fish, ready to suffocate his vision. "Yes, brother." He sounded subdued, quiet, even to himself, and felt Maedhros' arms tighten around him.

They were quiet, for a long time. Seconds went by as months, and a month, now that Maglor looked back on it, seemed only like a second.

"Just close your eyes."

Maglor felt surprise bubble within him.

"Maedhros…" He looked up, but through the fog, the black fish that swarmed in the ponds, he could barely make out the face of his brother.

"I understand, Maglor."

His eyelids were getting heavier.

"Thank you."

_The last drop of blood…_

_…is mine._

* * *

**To make this clear—since clarifying it in the story kind of takes away from Maglor's instability and desperation—they are in a different life. **This isn't in context with the Silmarillion. As mentioned in the summary, it's an alternate-universe story, where Maglor and Maedhros are in another world, and they have been tortured, beaten, and thoroughly defeated by their enemies. This is Maglor's musing as they wait to die. Each time they are about to die, their memories start flooding back, and of course, Maglor is the first person who realizes this and tries to approach the subject. As hinted in the story, also, this has happened more than once.

**Poor Maglor!**

**I hope you enjoyed reading it!**


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